Wake Up, Stand Up, Speak Up

I punked out on my husband last night.
Seeing that things were rapidly moving from ‘edge’ to ‘lean’ to ‘call’,
I did what I do in times of great stress and anguish.
I played a game on Facebook.

Now, it used to be planting cropsies, tending gardens, sliding jewels, solving puzzles.
But to me, there is nothing so mind-numbing as a Candy Crush derivative.
My poison last night was Candy Crush Soda, and I gotta tell you, I couldn’t lose.
Those 5 lives (plus the 3 my fellow gamers sent me) lasted all the way through Iowa’s results.

I tried not to listen, but I heard it.
I heard it all.

Discussion about red states, blue states, pundits, and Pennsylvania.
Not enough money thrown at this state.
Get out the vote initiatives.
Found out I am an acronym: WCEW (White College Educated Woman).
I was supposed to like her in this state, him in the other state.
“This is why we got that result!”
‘NO!” THIS is why we lost that state!’

(It reminded me of working at Borders.
‘You won’t take my book back- THAT’s why your stores are closing!’)

When Candy Crush failed to numb my head,
and I decided to just eat the last life I couldn’t seem to lose- I gave up.
My poor husband.
I kissed him goodnight and went to sleep.
I left him to watch alone until the end.

(I have apologized- twice- for leaving him alone in Gethsemane.
He thinks I’m overreacting.
Maybe.
Not the first time I’ve heard that- won’t be the last.)

This morning I stayed in bed.
Watched him get dressed for the day.
Had a few tears- not ashamed to say that.
Abject fear does that to me.

He looked at me a few times; he was quiet too.
I told him my plan- I would stay in bed and the day would just stop.
As long as I didn’t get out of bed nothing would change.
(This is not, in fact, a good plan for someone with a bladder the size of a hazelnut.)

After yielding to Nature’s call,
and feeling rather stupid about the drama of the thing,
I realized it was just ridiculous.

I had used my chance.
I’d given my thoughts.
I’d cast my vote.
I had taken advantage of the chance to be heard.
I’m grateful for that.
The person I thought shouldn’t win had in fact won.

So- time to rebuild.
Time to accept it the way I would have expected it of others had the vote gone differently.
Time to examine and learn.
Time to reflect.
And, like getting out of bed- time to take action.

What action?
It will vary by person, vary by talent.
But action must be taken and lessons must be learned.

I’ve learned this about me: I voted from a place of fear.
I was afraid what would happen if he won.
He won.
My fear didn’t stop that- and I’m not going to be undone by fear.
It’s familiar, this feeling.
It’s the same weird lightness I felt after my divorce.
When the most unwanted thing happens, and you are still alive.
You still breathe.
You survive.
You pick yourself up and you LEARN SOMETHING, damn it.

I went with fear and it feels terrible.
Now, I wouldn’t have changed my vote.
No, I voted true to me and I’m OK with that.
But I’m not OK with fear.

Fear comes from isolation and distance.
Fear cuts us off from each other and creates distrust- creates enemies.
It blocks the light and allows foul smells and weird movement.
It clouds the brain.
We stop trying to understand, to learn.
It enables us to see ourselves as ‘US’ and others as “THEM.”
We stop reaching out.

So, yeah, that isn’t working for me.

I bring things together.
I bring ideas together to solve problems.
I bring words together to paint pictures and explain things.
I match people with jobs, cookies with icing, shoppers with the restroom.
I am not afraid to learn.
Not afraid to try again.
And again.
One more time…. and again after that.

I know this- when you want to help people, people that need help appear.
More than you could ever help by yourself.
The more we help each other, the better we know each other.
And the less fear we feel.
My passions are: hunger, homelessness, and literacy.
Yours may be different.
But whatever your passion, you can follow it and help another person.
Ask for the opportunity and they will appear.

Consider helping if you are upset, indifferent, or joyous about the outcome.
No need to wait to make things great.
As I’ve heard it said- the closest helping hand is at the end of your arm.

So, yes- I cleaned my house.
And it will get messy and unorganized and chaotic soon anyways.
But I’ll clean it again.
And again.
And again.

Because trying-
even when you are tired and heartsick and just want to stay in bed:
Trying is part of life and that’s what you do.
We’re lucky.
We still live here.
It might as well be as pleasant as we can make it.

 

 

 

 

Being-Have

When they were small
and I admonished my daughters to ‘Behave!’
it was my youngest daughter’s usual response to say
‘We ARE being-have!’
Her protest was usually accurate.
There is,
after all,
a limit to the mischief you can do when you are under three feet tall.
But when things got too quiet it was best to check in and make sure everything was OK.

I had three Main Rules.
(If you call my daughters now and ask them what Mom’s Three Main Rules were they will likely get at least two of them correct even these many years later.)

1. No He-Said /She-Said.
   By this I meant- don’t endlessly pass the blame or over explain what lead to the problem.
   (Drives me nuts. This election year has been brutal…..)
2. No Wet Noises.
   Just writing that made all the hair on my body quiver.
   It’s only been in the past few years that I realized I have a mild form of misophonia.
   (We used to just believe I was picky and cranky. Which might still be true.)
   Misophonia is a selective sound sensitivity syndrome.
   The extreme irritability or distaste comes from repetitive sounds or motions.
   Think of a child leaning over your shoulder chewing gum.
   You should think of it, because I can’t.
   Eating, sucking, crunching, licking, chewing, tsk-ing sounds make my skin crawl.
3. Do What you Have to Do Before you do What you Want to Do.
   This rather elastic rule had many uses.

• Clean your room before you play.
• Eat your dinner before desert.
• Send a thank you note before you play with your gifts.
• Do your homework before watching TV.
  and even
• Get a new job before you leave your present one.

Rules are in place for a reason.
These Big Three would help us live like Regular People.
We would be mannerly and considerate.
We would be reliable and keep our word.
Coworkers would not whimper when we ate our lunch at our desks.
Schedules would be made and kept.
Responsibility taken and conflicts resolved.

My daughters have become all of these things.
This, despite breaking all three of the Main Rules on a fairly regular basis when they little.

They don’t have these rules for their children.
(I’ll need to ask them if they have their own version of them…)
They roll their eyes when talking about the Main Rules.
But both of them chew with their mouths closed, so I’ve got that going for me.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)

 

It’s Easy

“Nothing you can do,
but you can learn
How to be you in time
It’s easy.”
-Beatles

I wore a new dress to the business meeting Thursday.
It was black and white print
(I rarely wear print)
had a split rounded-neck
(I wear vees or scoops)
jersey knit
(knit is not my friend)
and had  open caped sleeves
(nothing about that statement is familiar to me).

I own nothing else like it.
It doesn’t look like anything I usually wear.
It looked like nothing else anyone else was wearing.
Getting dressed in my room I took one last look in the full-view mirror,
lifted my chin,
and walked to the elevator.

I felt fantastic in the dress.
It turns out it is exactly me.

Learning how to be you is a process.

Most people start out trying to be like the people they know.
When they get older they try to be the person they think they should be.
Older still, they act  and dress like the person they want to be.
None of those things are wrong.

But.
It’s best to act, dress, and speak like yourself.

My first time conducting a training class I presented the lesson on Business Communication.
I knew this lesson.
Knew it cold.
Knew it backwards and forwards.
Had practiced.
Had taken it myself twice.
Had spoken to the trainer that had presented it, got her thoughts and suggestions.

When I stood up and began to speak I said all the right words.
I conducted the correct activities.
I was, however, not connecting to the participants.
I could feel the flop sweat gathering in my armpits and under my bra.
The more I tried to stick to the lesson the more hollow I sounded to myself.
As I called for a break my friend and manager took me outside to ‘smoke.’
(This was me leaning sweatily against the wall while she smoked.)

She asked me what I was doing.
Who WAS I?
I told her I was doing exactly what Val had done.

We looked at each other as that sunk in.
I WAS doing exactly what Val had done.
Exactly.
Except, I wasn’t Val.
I can fix this, I told her.
I get it.

I went back in and salvaged the class.
It was easily the least effective and poorest presented class I ever lead.

I repeated the Communication course many times after that.
It became one of my favorite lessons.
Clear Communication is the bedrock for building a great and effective team.
The content for the subsequent classes was very similar to that first horrible effort.
The difference in the lessons wasn’t in the content.
It was in the presenter.

In that first class I was being The Trainer.
(Kind of like The Magician, except no top hat or cape.)
When leading that first class I took on the persona of the very successful person that trained me.
She was great.
She had her own style, her own cadence, her own humor.
Even though I tried to emulate her- it didn’t work.

I was leading that class because of what I could do and the way I could do it.
(Actually, the faith people had in me, and that yet to be realized, that I could do it!)
Once I realized that I could be me,
could talk to the people normally,
that I could be myself,
that, as the Beatles sang-
That I ‘learn to be (me) in time’
it truly was easy.

I was tempted to be me in my safe black on Thursday.
I was tempted to break out the suit.
I’m glad I didn’t.
Glad I trusted in finding out a little more about being me.
I got smiles.
Comments.
When you dare to be your true, authentic, self- people respond.

The chorus of the Beatles song is-

All you need is Love…
Love is all you need.

I Corinthians 13:1 explains my difficulty when I lead the class:

If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,
but have not love,
I am become sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal.

It’s risky to Love.
Love requires action.
jumping a bit blindly.
Daring.
Passion.
Trust.

The hardest thing,
sometimes,
is showing all of that towards yourself.
But it’s rewarding.
You can learn how to be you in time.
I’m waiting for the easy.
But even if it’s not easy- it’s worth it.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)
The photo was taken on Folly Beach, South Carolina, 2013

 

 

 

Since When?

Since when is it acceptable to threaten to shoot someone?
If I did that at work I could be fired for making threats.
And yet I glance at the headlines and someone has threatened just that depending on who is elected President of the United States.
Why is that not the same thing?

You want to ‘threaten’ me with your moving out of the country?
Oh, OK. I’m fine with that.
That’s between you and … yourself.
The worst it could do is convince someone that has your mindset that they should do it, too.
Oh, again, OK. I’m fine with that.

But to threaten to shoot someone.
No, I’m not OK with that.

Maybe you don’t remember when a president was assassinated.
It happened in my lifetime.
Maybe you don’t remember the assassination attempts on Ford?
On Reagan?
On the Pope?

Or, let’s look less at world leaders and closer to home.

How many shootings will it take to make you guard your mouth?

How many school children?
How many people that were in the right place at the wrong time?
People that thought they could

• watch a movie
• sit on their front porch
• go to church
• go to work
• attend a Halloween party
• dance with their friends
• go grocery shopping

I don’t find you amusing.
I don’t get your point.
I think you’re dangerous.
It isn’t making me trust your candidate any more than I do.
In fact,
we are known by the company we keep.
And if you are in each other’s company,
then I guess maybe you are backing the correct person.

You both scare me.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)

 

Crafty

When my husband-to-be and I moved into our house we did it all ourselves.
Load after load in the back of the van and car.
Load. After. Load. After. Load. After Load.

At one point, after we set the Craft Shelving into place in the basement
(note- Craft Shelving is white. Maybe beige. That’s how you know it’s Craft Shelving.)
and we were hauling labeled bins down the steps and slotting them into place,
Ken turned to me and said:

I know what your hobby is.
It’s collecting hobbies.

I had

• fabric (LOTs of fabric)
• yarn
• batting
• soap-making stuff
• paper-making stuff
• many many crochet hooks
• stickers and labels
• buttons and button boxes
• fabric flowers
• magnet sheets, buttons, discs, and cards
• elastic
• cording
• glitter (mea culpa)
• glue in sticks, bottles, dots, iron-on, and push-pop dispensers, and Mod-Podge
• scrapbooking papers and assorted fripperies
• note cards
• deckle-edged cards, tags, papers, and books
• clock works and numbers
• wooden cubes, dowels, slabs, and shreds
• paint: watercolor, oils, tempra, finger, and house
• AFPs (Almost Finished Projects)
• music boxes
• Christmas ornaments
• wrapping paper
• paper- mache’ things ready for finishing
• tassels
• beads
• needles
• trays for beads and needles
• cases for the trays for beads and needles
• a sewing machine of dubious integrity
• bins
• label maker

I loved it all.
And that’s only the stuff I’ll admit to- I am dead sure there was a lot more.

Making, you see, is a super-power.
The very act of creating something out of various other somethings is akin to magic.
True, once made you take responsibility for it.
Kind of like when you save a life you are a bit responsible for it forever.
(I think I got that from early Batman TV shows. Or Rawhide. Maybe both.)
When you create something you are responsible for finding it A Place.

Sometimes that Place is not with you.
Sometimes it’s in the back of your car,
where it will stay as you drive it around,
letting both it and you get used to it not living in your house.
Or until you sigh and bring it back in again.

I want to tell you that I don’t have all of that stuff.
(Actually, I think I did sell the clockworks and music boxes at a yard sale.)

I gave some of the shinier,
hard-to-part-with items to the little girl that lived next door.
She used it to make fairy gardens.
Except,
I’m guessing,
for the super-shiny stuff.
I bet she put it away for just the right project.
In a bin.

You’re never too young to start.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)
Photo is from crafthubs.com
 

Here Be Dragons

X

During the Medieval period dragons, serpents, lions, and Griffins
were painted in the uncharted areas of maps.
They stood in for the unknown perils of far away lands.
Although the Latin phrase ‘HHC SVNT DRACONES’ was only shown on a map once**,
the phrase ‘Here are/be Dragons’ highlights dangerous or uncharted territories.

It’s interesting: uncharted=dangerous.

Why is it, I wonder, that we greet the unknown with trepidation instead of anticipation?
We certainly don’t allow our children to do that.

• You’ll have fun in school! You’ll make LOTS of new friends!
• Try out for the team/play/club/sorority, they’ll love you!
• Go on the interview! Each one is another chance to get better!
• Do the speech- everyone is rooting for you to do well!
• You want friends? Go say hello to someone…
• Just one bite; how can you know if you like it until you taste it?

We encourage our children to crawl and then to walk.
We ask them to hold onto our hands but to walk by themselves like big kids.
We take them to Santa and the Easter Bunny,
(then throw up our hands when they wander over to strangers.)
We tell them to be gentle and the dog won’t bit/the cat won’t scratch.

At what age do we start to draw away from the unknown?
When do we decide that the dragons over the horizon are too frightening to face?
Why do we content ourselves with standing on the shore and watching the sun set,
instead of following it to the other side of the world?

However did we get to be Dorothy,
earnestly proclaiming that

“If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire again,
I won’t look any further than my own back yard.
Because if it isn’t there, I never really lost it to begin with.”.

Poppycock.
Stuff and nonsense.

There are so many places I’d like to see.
And so many reasons to go and see them.
I don’t need the excuse that I am chasing my heart’s desire, Dorothy.
I love my own backyard, but don’t confine me there.
I can both wander away and find my way back.
It doesn’t have to be one of the other.

I’d rather be like the children in the Narnia books than Dorothy.
They were forever taking on the unknown and then finding themselves back home.
They weren’t afraid of witches; Dorothy.
Nor Dragons.

Here be Dragons can be an invitation,
if you allow it,
instead of a warning.

(This post is part of the 31 days of Writing Challenge.)

The picture shown is from Wellington’s Map Blog.
**The Hunt-Lennox Globe (1503-1507) is the place that referenced Here by Dragons.

For the Oldest Sister

My first daughter was 2 and a half when her little sister was born.

We made sure that the baby arrived
(miraculously and mysteriously!)
with an ‘I am the BIG Sister’ t shirt and baby doll for Jennifer.

Careful introductions were made.
Much attention lavished on Jennifer.
Shannon came home on- I swear- the hottest July day I’ve ever experienced.
Jennifer sat next to me,
hiked her shirt up,
and placed her baby to her chest as I nursed Shannon.

She tenderly patted a foot.
kissed the baby’s head.
looked concerned when she cried,
and cuddled next to me (something she rarely did) when Shannon slept.

After a dinner where much was made about how a BIG sister eats grown-up food,
Jennifer had her bath and slipped into her She-Ra night gown.
She gathered the baby blanket, diapers, pacifier and stuffed dog,
placing them in the car seat.
Slowly and carefully she pulled the car set to the front door,
then came over and kissed Shannon’s head.
Instead of saying goodnight, she said good-bye.
Cute, I thought.
Very sweet.

The next day went well.
Still very hot.
No air conditioning.
As a nursing mom I held the baby constantly.
It felt like we were fused together from the heat.
Jennifer was thrilled that her grandmother was staying over and had fun cooking and playing outside.
Night time, and the car seat ritual was repeated.
Bath, items gathered,baby kissed good-bye.

Day three, as I sat sweating,
I stopped her as she was gathering items in what looked to be rapidly developing into a ritual.
What are you doing?
Baby is all done, she said.
Time for her to go goodbye.

Huh.

I wasn’t prepared for that one.
She wasn’t upset.
She was just being helpful.
It was all well and good for us to have a baby- but three days was enough.
Car seat at the door.
Don’t let it hit you on the way out.
The baby, I said, is staying here with us.
She lives here now.
Jennifer was fine, kissed Shannon’s head, and went to bed.

Over the next few weeks I’d find a packed diaper bag sitting by the front door every so often.
I’d unpack it and put it away, only to find it there again in a few days.
Jennifer was cheerful,
never hurt the baby,
just seemed to exercise her ‘I was here first’ rights.

Eventually she stopped her not so subtle hints that we should return the baby.
When Shannon would cry she rush to me: ‘Whaanon’s crying! Feed it!’
Everything was just fine.
They will be friends.

They slept in the same room for years, until Jennifer (now Jenn) moved out.
During that time they shared clothes,
lost pagers,
snuck out of the house (yes; I knew),
practiced for band,
argued,
fought over the phone,
traded secrets,
and formed a bond that’s tighter than truth.
These days it’s not unusual for them to text and phone each other 10 times a day.

They’re both mothers now.
Both have boys of their own.
Shannon’s three-year-old son held his baby cousin for the first time and the smile he gave lit the room.
Everything, I knew, was going to be just fine.
They will be friends.

It’s good to be the YaYa.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)

 

 

Now We’re Cooking

I’ve had this photo around for a while.
It always makes me smile.
How low are standards when you need to ‘Insist upon plates’ when dining out?

No matter how slapdash dinner is,
I can achieve this small touch that makes it a special meal.
Then again, even that egg looks a little underwhelmed at its perch on the genuine clay plates.
It reminds me of the Billy Crystal routine, where he spoke as boxer Larry Holmes.
Ken likes to quote it when we make breakfast (on a plate!)

“I like eggs.
A lot, Howard.
I love eggs. I loooove eggs.
I go into the coffee shop in the hotel and I love eggs.
I order over easy eggs, I like the eggs over easy.
They never come over easy that’s a hard egg to order,
the over easy,
if they’re under easy they’re disgusting.
I only got one tooth there and if they’re under easy they run down my face.
So that’s why I order a omelet.”

Food is interesting.
You need it in order to live.
We watch it on YouTube.
TV shows-
heck- TV CHANNELS are devoted to it.
Whole sections in bookstores contain cookbooks.
Magazines.
Websites.
Cooks.com. Food.com Eat.com
(Eat.com takes you to the Hellmann’s website.)
We grow it, hunt it, buy it.
We use coupons so we don’t pay too much for it….
and then buy $5.00 yogurt cups on the way home.

We wake up thinking about breakfast.
We pack lunch, or else contemplate lunch on the way to work.
During the day we plan for dinner.
We meet for lunch,
grab a coffee,
have lunch-and-learns.
We ask: What’s for dinner?

Celebrate birthdays and anniversaries with cake.
Have wedding receptions with food and sweets;
indicating our food choices on the response card.
Pack the restaurants on Mother’s Day.
We even photograph it to remember it better.
Food demos are rivaling kittens on Facebook.
Snapchat.
Instagram.
Pinterest boards.

We overindulge.
Cut back a little.
Go vegan.
Macrobiotic.
Raw food.
Air fryers.
Comfort food.
Fondue.
Turducken.
Extreme food challenges.

Freeze it.
Store it.
Blanch it.
Vacuum-pack it.
Hide it away in plastic containers and toss it when it grows the slimy mold of shame.

I’m privileged.
I can afford food for my family.
I have the luxury of choice.
There are grocery stores within walking distance of my house
– and at least 5 places that sell fresh fruits and vegetables within 5 miles.

I fight my weight because I have enough food to eat to much of it.
Most week night my husband cooks dinner.
We eat at the table;
saying thanks beforehand.

I even have plates.
I think I’ll add some plates along with my next food drive donation.
It’s time for those again.
Too many children look to schools for their for-sure meals.
Cold weather means holidays are fast approaching.
Money is tighter.
Electricity and gas prices escalate.
Small luxuries go away and basic needs are contemplated for urgency.

The next time you sit down to a meal ask yourself if you could have cooked it without gas or electricity.
Or running water.
It’s reality for too many people.
So the next time you are counting your coupons in the checkout line,
please look around for the food donation signs.
Add a donation to your order.

It will make your next meal taste even better.
Even better than eating from a  plate.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Match

After 24 years of marriage I found myself alone and perplexed at the very thought of dating.

No way.
I hadn’t dated since I was 19 years old.
Where does an adult go on a date?
What would I wear?
Talk about?

It’s also a matter of
(was it Groucho Marx that didn’t want to belong to a club if it would admit him as a member? their standards would be too low?)
what’s wrong with someone my age that they aren’t married?

Well- I did date.
He was much more than ‘Bounceback Guy’.
He made me laugh and laugh.
And I felt pretty.
And like someone would want to be with me again.
Like maybe I wasn’t discarded.
Maybe I still had something of value.
Maybe I could be interesting.

But Non-BBG and I broke up.
long distance relationships….
he was 10 years younger than me…..
we had very different ideas of where we were going.
of who we wanted to be…
of how we saw ourselves.

And I was alone again.
Not just alone.
I was lonely.
The cry yourself dry kind of lonely.
The ‘Gee- I wonder if there’s a service where people come and hold you so you can sleep’ Lonely.
(Now wait. I understand that there is indeed a service where you pay people to hold you. I was thinking warm but platonic. not escort and sweaty.)

Then two good friends told me over the span of a few days- they had a brilliant idea.

One friend told me that
if I put the time into my personal life that I did to work- I wouldn’t be alone.
Another friend told me to get myself on Match.com and get me a man.
She’d done it.
She was happy.
I, too, could be happy.
(And not fantasizing of strangers holding me while I slept.)

So, I bought myself a body pillow
(They are long and cocoon-like, and stretch out next to you while you sleep.
Not ideal- but safer than Snuggles-for-Hire)
and wrote me a Match.com profile.

It was long.
It mentioned shoes.
Had a picture of my (ex-husband’s) dog.
A photo of my daughters.
Said I wasn’t into sports.
Said I liked to be on time.
Revealed that I loathe the feel of fluffy cotton in pills bottles.
I broke every rule.
I gushed.
Was chatty.
Got off topic.
Was totally me…..then hit publish.

Woke up the next day to (if it had existed then) Pinterest for Daters.
Thumbnail photos of men that were matched to be compatible to me.
I could just click and send them a wink and a message.
So – I went shopping.
I clicked and winked.
Sorted and pasted.
Emailed and talked.
HAD a BLAST!

A man asked me, within 5 minutes of meeting me,  if my eyes were real, and if I’ve ever wanted to be cremated.
(I told him, in order, Yes, and No, not anytime soon.)
He then asked if I was hungry, suggested a flatbread at Panera’s, and pulled out a 2-1 coupon.
Which would pay, he said, for his half since we would split the bill.
Creepy guy pulled me into a goodbye guess when I said goodbye.
Ugh.

I met the man I will call Drunk-Dialing-Guy.
He was sweet, told me I reminded him of his ex.
Explained that she’d slept with his friend…. then gave him herpes before leaving.
(This had not been on his profile.)
Discouraged at my polite but firm decision not to meet again, he took to calling me.
At night.
When the bars closed.
As his friends drove him home.
Crying in the back seat.

Undeterred, I persisted with the clicking.
And responding, since I got a lot of winks myself.

Then, not long after my daughter told me her idea of my perfect match was
a “Hippie-Brawny-Guy-in a Red-Plaid Shirt”
I saw a thumbnail photo that stopped me cold.
He had a mustache, glasses, was wearing a floppy bucket hat, and smiling at the photographer.
Right at me.
(I could tell.)
He looked kind.
He looked happy.
I wanted to see that smile in person.
So I winked.

He was a student- returned to school and remaking his life.
He loved the outdoors.
Hunting.
He laughed at my stories.
Read my entire (!!!!) profile and still wanted to talk to me.
I told my daughter that I was going to meet someone, right after he finished his finals.
Finals?
I told her he was an architecture student and before I could continue she said
“A student! MOM! Your last boyfriend was 10 years younger than you- now you’re dating students?!”
Not that I thought I needed to, but I explained that I was the younger one this time, thank you.

He took me to see/listen to Handel’s Messiah on out first date.
No talk of cremation or herpes, so that was a plus.
He was kind and funny and looked as nervous as I felt.
We talked and talked.
(He describes it as “The Interview”. Whatever.)

He listens to ALL MY MANY WORDS!
He explains sports to me.
We hold hands when we go out.
He cooks dinner and tells me to drink more water and get more sleep.
I find his keys… and work gloves… and nag him to turn off lights.
We both like Marvel Agents of Shield.

My thanks go to Lori and Dee for pointing me in the right direction.

It’s been 10 years.
I get to see his smile every day.

The cats sleep on the body pillow.
Outside.
In the breezeway.
I don’t need it anymore.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)

 

 

 

 

Validated

Today, as part of a training exercise,  I shared both a personal and professional goal for the coming year.

There is a power in stating your goals aloud.
It’s a sobering thought to give voice to things that are of prime importance to you.

Some of the folks in the group prefaced their goals with statements such as :

This might not seem very important…

I just want to…..

This is a little thing….

But all of the things were important.

It’s the split-second decisions we all hope we never need to make:
What will I take out of my home in a fire?
What will I bring to a deserted island?
If I could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, what would it be?
What is the only book I would choose if I could only read one more book?

What is your most important goal, both personal and professional?

To a person- all of the statements were met with applause.
Encouragement was given.
Correlations to past successes made.
First steps needed to meet the goals suggested.
Offers of accountability.
Resources proposed.
Assurances that successes would be triumphed and celebrated.

A quote was shared, too.

“Don’t wait for anyone’s permission in order to be successful.”

I agree with that.
It also brought me to consider this-
(which is a pretty huge leap for a professional people-pleaser)

Validation is only needed for parking slips.

What happened today wasn’t validation.
The opinions of others wasn’t needed to make the goals valid.
Not needed to make them official.
They were all of that the moment we spoke them aloud.

What happened today was encouragement.
It was empathy.
It was community.

That was most certainly needed and appreciated.
And felt.

(This post is part of the 31 Days of Writing Challenge.)